Genesis. Volume 2

December 24, 1986. Brookfield. Rose's Diner. 3:30 p.m. The diner was small, warm, with steamed-up windows through which the December town looked like a watercolor painted wet-on-wet. Christmas tinsel hung from the chandelier—cheap, store-bought, already faded after two weeks, but no one had taken it down. Plastic candles with tiny bulbs inside sat on the windowsills, their orange light flickering in time with the old wiring's blink. By the counter stood an artificial tree, about four feet tall, with half its ornaments missing. It smelled of cinnamon, coffee, and wet wool. Everything was foreign, store-bought, fake. But people were smiling. "Emma, would you like some pie?" asked the waitress everyone called Rosie, though her real name was Mary. She stood with a notepad in hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear like in old movies. "Just tea," Emma replied. "And a sandwich. With cheese." "Coming right up." Emma sat by the window, her right shoulder against the wall. Her left still ached—it throbbed when the weather changed, and today it had been snowing since morning, the shoulder reminding her with every movement, dull and insistent, like an alarm clock you can't turn off. The diner was crowded. Parents had come with their children—not because it was a holiday, but because for weeks now, things had been happening outside that made people want to be indoors with others. The safety of numbers. The safety of warmth. The safety of other people's voices drowning out the silence. At the next table sat a family: father, mother, a daughter about eight, and a son about five. The boy was drawing something round with sticks on a napkin—a snowman, probably. The girl was reading a paperback, a page corner folded down. The mother drank coffee, warming her hands on the mug. The father flipped through a newspaper, frowning at the sports section. Ordinary people. Normal. Emma watched them and felt a strange, unfamiliar weight in her chest. Not pain—nostalgia for something she'd never had. Christmas with parents. A family. A simple life where the worst thing was missing the bus or forgetting to buy a gift. "Your tea," Rosie said, setting down a mug and a plate with a sandwich. Steam rose from the mug, thick and spicy. "Enjoy." "Thanks." Emma picked up the mug, brought it to her lips. The tea was hot, strong, with bergamot—the kind she used to love. She couldn't remember when. Maybe before the mansion. Before everything. Before the word "bergamot" became just a taste, not a reminder of something lost. Christmas jazz drifted through the diner. Old, quiet, with the soft hiss of a vinyl recording. Someone was playing "White Christmas" on saxophone—slow, slightly lazy, the way you play at the end of a long evening. Emma didn't recognize the artist. She just listened. In the corner, by the counter, sat an elderly couple. The woman in a blue dress with a white collar, the man in a jacket he hadn't taken off even indoors. They weren't talking. They just held hands across the table, their fingers intertwined like the roots of an old tree. Two teenage girls in the next booth were discussing boys. The names were unfamiliar: Tim, Dan, some Jeremy who was "a total jerk but kisses great." One laughed, the other blushed and hid her face behind the menu. Emma listened without really hearing. Just sounds—other people's lives, not touching hers. Or touching her, but she didn't notice. "Mom, look, it's snowing!" the boy at the next table said, pressing his palm to the glass. "I see," the mother replied. "Beautiful." "And tomorrow's Christmas?" "Tomorrow." "Will Santa come?" "He will. If you behave." "I've been good." "A little good," the father said without looking up from his paper. The boy pouted. His sister laughed and stuck out her tongue at him. Emma took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was soft, the cheese processed, almost rubbery. Tasteless. But hot. She chewed slowly, staring out the window. Snow fell on parked cars, on the few passersby, on lampposts whose bulbs had long burned out. The town had gone quiet—not from fear, from exhaustion. December. The end of the year. Everyone was waiting for a holiday, even if they didn't believe in it. The jazz switched to another tune—"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," a female voice, soft and slightly sad. Emma didn't know the singer. She just listened. Somewhere in the back of the diner, a bell jingled over the door—someone entered, bringing a cloud of frosty air. Emma didn't turn. She watched the snow. The radio cut out at 3:47 p.m. Exactly in the middle of a phrase. The singer didn't finish the word "merry"—the sound broke off, as if someone had cut a wire. Silence hit their ears—sharp, sudden, like a slap. Then—a sound. A deep, grinding sound with no equivalent in nature. It wasn't a wolf's howl—wolves howl beautifully, with longing. It wasn't a mechanical screech—machines have rhythm. It wasn't an electrical discharge—there was no purity in it. That sound contained everything at once: howl, screech, discharge, and something else Emma couldn't name. Something ancient. Something that shouldn't have been allowed out. Glasses on the tables vibrated faintly. Spoons clinked against saucers, the sound almost musical—the only note in the cacophony. An infant on its mother's lap—the one that had slept the whole way—woke up and began to cry. Not from fear—from the vibration that walls couldn't muffle. Emma counted to herself. One second—people froze, faces went white. Two—someone's mug fell to the floor, shattered, shards scattering across the linoleum. Three—the woman in the blue dress gripped her husband's hand so hard her knuckles went white. Four—the boy at the next table stopped breathing. Five. Silence. The jazz resumed. From the same note where it had broken off. The singer finished the word "merry," as if nothing had happened, as if time had simply skipped one beat and moved on. People were frozen. Pale, mouths open. Someone was gripping a fork, someone the edge of the tablecloth, fingers trembling. The woman in the blue dress looked at her husband, the husband looked at her, and there were no words between them. Then someone laughed. Nervously, short, like a cough. A man at the counter, in a plaid shirt, set down his mug and let out that laugh—not because anything was funny, but because he had to do something. That gave everyone else permission to laugh too—nervously, briefly, as if laughter could undo what they'd just heard. Laughter bounced between tables. "Thunderstorm, probably," the father at the next table said. His voice was steady, almost convincing. "Interference." "Yes," the mother replied. "Thunderstorm." In December. Emma didn't correct her. The waitress, Rosie, pretended to check orders in her notepad. Her hand trembled as she wrote, the pencil leaving jagged, broken lines on the paper. The teenage girls had stopped laughing. One stared at the table, the other out the window. No one spoke. The elderly couple—the woman and the man—still held hands. Their faces were white as the snow outside. But they didn't let go. Their fingers intertwined even tighter, if that was possible. "Emma," Rosie said, approaching the table. Her voice was higher than usual. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." Emma lifted her mug. The tea had gone cold. "Could I have another?" "Coming right up." Rosie left. Emma watched the snow. The thought didn't come immediately. First—emptiness. Like after a blow, when you don't yet know if it hurts or not. Then—cold. Not from outside—from inside, somewhere beneath her sternum. "The Sleeper," she thought. "He's calling. Or testing." She didn't know the difference. And she knew it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was here. That he was probing the boundaries. That Christmas Eve was just another day to him. Gradually, sounds returned to the diner. Spoons clinked against cups, children whispered, someone moved chairs, their legs scraping the floor. Life went on. Emma took a sip of tea. New, hot, with bergamot. The sandwich had gone cold, the cheese hardened. She finished it without tasting it. "The worst part," she thought, "isn't the howl. The worst part is how quickly people find ways to get used to it." She looked at the family at the next table. The boy was drawing again—the snowman now had a crooked smile. The girl was reading. The mother drank coffee. The father flipped through his newspaper. Normal people. Normal life. Would they remember that sound? Or would they push it out, the way they push out nightmares? Pretend it was interference. A thunderstorm. Or just their imagination. Because it was easier. "Emma," Rosie called. "Would you like some pie?" "No, thank you." "Maybe some cookies? Gingerbread, fresh out of the oven." "No." She paid, left a tip—more than usual. Stepped outside. The snow was still falling. Wet, thick, heavy. It fell on her hair, her shoulders, her eyelashes. Emma didn't brush it off. The cold was real, and that was good. Behind the diner windows, yellow light glowed. Inside, people smiled, laughed, pretended nothing had happened. Someone turned the music up louder. She stood for a minute. Then she walked toward the headquarters. "Tonight's Christmas Eve," she thought. "Tomorrow's Christmas." She didn't know if there would be a tomorrow. And she knew it didn't matter. Because if you don't plan for tomorrow, today loses its meaning. Snow crunched under her feet. Somewhere on the hill, in the Genesis mansion, a gray light burned. Jack wasn't sleeping. Jack never slept. She went inside. Took off her coat in the hallway, hung it on the hook. "Where were you?" Max asked. He sat in the kitchen, cleaning his knife, the blade gleaming in the lamplight. "At the diner." "Alone?" "Alone." "You heard it?" "I heard it." "And what do you think?" "I think you can't get used to it." "We will," he said. "We don't have a choice." She didn't answer. She went to her room and lay down on the bed. Outside, it was getting dark. She closed her eyes. Behind her lids—the diner, people laughing, and the sound they would pretend they hadn't heard. "We won't pretend," Emma thought. "We remember." She fell asleep toward evening. And in her dream, someone called her. Not with a voice—with a vibration. Familiar. Foreign. The Sleeper. She woke in a cold sweat. Outside, it was night. The snow had stopped. The room was quiet, only the boiler humming in the basement. Emma sat up in bed, gripping the copper coin—the one Elias had given her. The metal was cold, but not burning. "He's calling," she thought. "Not us. Me." She didn't know why. But she knew it was true. She lay back down. Closed her eyes. Sleep didn't come. Someone walked in the hallway. Liam. Emma didn't call out. She just listened to his footsteps fade. Outside, the night continued. Christmas Eve. Quiet. The snow had stopped falling. Emma stared at the ceiling. And she thought about how tomorrow was Christmas. And that they would celebrate. Because if you didn't celebrate, then what was the point? She closed her eyes. Behind her lids—white snow. Red threads. The gray mansion on the hill. And silence. The kind of silence that comes only before a storm.